Dear Mr. Dvorak:
Ann Landers wouldn't print this. I have nowhere else to turn.
I have to get the word out. Warn other parents. I must be rambling
on. Let me try and explain. It's about my son, Billy. He's
always been a good, normal ten year old boy. Well, last spring we
sat down after dinner to select a summer camp for Billy. We sorted
through the camp brochures. There were the usual camps with
swimming, canoeing, games, singing by the campfire -- you know.
There were sports camps and specialty camps for weight reduction,
music, military camps and camps that specialized in Tibetan knot
tying. I tried to talk him into Camp Winnepoopoo. It's where he
went last year. (He made an adorable picture out of painted pinto
beans and macaroni). Billy would have none of it. Billy pulled a
brochure out of his pocket. It was for a COMPUTER CAMP! We should
have put our foot down right there, if only we had known. He left
three weeks ago. I don't know what's happened. He's changed. I
can't explain it. See for yourself. These are some of my little
Billy's letters.
Dear Mom,
Dear Mom,
P.S. This is written on a wordprocessor. Pretty swell, huh? It's
Dear Mom,
Dear Mom,
Dear Mother,
Dear Mother,
Mother,
See what I mean? It's been two weeks since I've heard from my
little boy. What can I do, Mr. Dvorak? I know that it's probably
too late to save my little Billy. But, if by printing these
letters you can save JUST ONE CHILD from a life of programming,
please, I beg of you to do so.
The kids are dorky nerds. The food stinks. The computers are
the only good part. We're learning how to program. Late at night
is the best time to program, so they let us stay up.
Camp is O.K. Last night we had pizza in the middle of the
night. We all get to choose what we want to drink. I drink
Classic Coke. By the way, can you make Szechuan food? I'm getting
used to it now. Gotta go, it's time for the flowchart class.
spellchecked too.
Don't worry. We do regular camp stuff. We told ghost stories
by the glow of the green computer screens. It was real neat. I
don't have much of a tan 'cause we don't go outside very often.
You can't see the computer screen in the sunlight anyway. That
wimp camp I went to last year fed us weird food too. Lay off, Mom.
I'm okay, really.
I'm fine. I'm sleeping enough. I'm eating enough. This is
the best camp ever. We scared the counselor with some phony worm
code. It was real funny. He got mad and yelled. Frederick says
it's okay. Can you send more money? I spent mine on a pocket
protector and a box of blank diskettes. I've got to chip in on the
phone bill. Did you know that you can talk to people on a
computer? Give my regards to Dad.
Forget the money for the telephone. We've got a way to not
pay. Sorry I haven't written. I've been learning a lot. I'm real
good at getting onto any computer in the country. It's really
easy! I got into the university's in less than fifteen minutes.
Frederick did it in five, he's going to show me how. Frederick is
my bunk partner. He's really smart. He says that I shouldn't call
myself Billy anymore. So, I'm not.
How nice of you to come up on Parents Day. Why'd you get so
upset? I haven't gained that much weight. The glasses aren't
real. Everybody wears them. I was trying to fit in. Believe me,
the tape on them is cool. I thought that you'd be proud of my
program. After all, I've made some money on it. A publisher is
sending a check for $30,000. Anyway, I've paid for the next six
weeks of camp. I won't be home until late August.
Stop treating me like a child. True -- physically I am only
ten years old. It was silly of you to try to kidnap me. Do not
try again. Remember, I can make your life miserable (i.e. - the
bank, credit bureau, and government computers). I am not kidding.
O.K.? I won't write again and this is your only warning. The
emotions of this interpersonal communication drain me.